


Beneath Tree and Star

by cielknight



Series: Beneath Wide Skies [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Cuiviénen, Exploration, F/F, F/M, Family, First Kinslaying (Tolkien), Friendship, Gen, M/M, Romance, The Noldor, The Sindar, The Vanyar, Tragedy, Travel, Valinor, Violence, Years of the Trees
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:42:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22320490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cielknight/pseuds/cielknight
Summary: Karanisuri born in Cuiviénen, born before Orome discovered the Quendi. She was born, like the wind, to not be caged. The world changes and despite many misgivings, she follows the winds of fate from Cuiviénen to Valinor and back again, from agnostic to faith, to rebellion, to acceptance.Tolkien is made of tragedy. From before Orome discovers the Quendi to Year One of the First Age. A re-imainging of the Silmarillion.
Relationships: Elu Thingol | Elwë Singollo/Melian, Finwë/Míriel Þerindë | Míriel Serindë, Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: Beneath Wide Skies [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1606561
Kudos: 2





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> You can see the original version up on FF. 
> 
> I decided to start working on this again, slowly but surely. I don't have a promised update schedule as my life is hectic and I don't want to make any promises. This fic was always meant to be one to relax. I want to finish Inglorious. I do have a great deal written, but I am going to be going through each chapter, editing, taking out material, putting in new material. I know the first few chapters will be really similar as I was pleased with those but it will deviate and I have plans and a working timeline with these characters (outside of Tolkien timeline).
> 
> But as I said, I don't have a promised update schedule. I have 9 chapters to edit, a 10th chapter to finish, and possibly a few more chapters to create in between the 9 chapters (depending on how I write). 
> 
> I guess my one warning should be this: While I have striven to stay as true to Tolkien's timeline, history, culture, and such as much as possible, I have changed things where I have deemed fit. I have filled in the gaps where I needed to and smudged areas to make it all work. So if you wanna comment and be like "this ain't true to what Tolkien said about elves" this is a fanfic. This is my re-imainging of the Silmarillion. The main POV will be Karanisuri but it will be a toss up between her siblings especially as they be split up.
> 
> P.S. Picked Major Character Death BECAUSE SO MANY PEOPLE DIE and the kinslaying yo!!

“Lhinnor! Lhinnor!” A small boy in bright livery ran into the large room. Tall bookcases ran from the floor to the high vaulted ceiling. A glass window graced the ceiling allowing natural light into the clean room. 

The small boy came to a stop in front of a desk where there sat a tall but slender man. Well, not so much a man, as a male elf, an ellon. He had long black hair the flowed freely down his back. There was a few splotches of ink across his shirt and a long black mark across his hand. He grimaced and his dark eyes rested upon the small boy. This was Lhinnor.

“Yes?” Lhinnor’s voice was rich and deep, almost seeming to resonate among the room no matter how quiet he spoke.

“They are here!” Lhinnor stared at the small boy for a moment.

‘They are here! At last!’ He continued to stare, disbelief upon his face. Suddenly Lhinnor stood up and rushed out of the study. The small boy scrambled after Lhinnor. It would have been a strange sight to be remarked upon if any could see it, a tall lanky man dashing through the hallway with a much smaller boy on his heels. Lhinnor paused for a moment, outside the room that was used for tea and visitors. He smoothed his hair into place and grimaced at the ink stain upon his hands and shirt. Lhinnor took a deep calming breath counting down from ten.

Lhinnor opened the door to the Tea Room. There was only two people in the room. They contrasted like a fiery sun and a silver dawn. A silver haired ellon and a red haired elleth. They talked to each other in low voices while staring out the window. They held in their hands tea cups filled with the steaming liquid. The elleth with fiery red hair turned from the window, her dress spinning with her. It was gossamer material, clinging to portions of her body, but the material seemed to float and swirl like liquid movements of water. The blue dress that seemed to shiver like rays of light reminded Lhinnor of the Feanorian Lamps. The silver haired male continued to sip tea, ancient eyes regarding him.

“Lhinnor,” she greeted, her voice low and musical. The elleth clasped Lhinnor’s hands in greeting. Her hands were rough and callused, at odds with her beautiful appearance. The elves from Cuivienen were truly the fairest of elves, except for Luthien and some of her descendants. 

“Karanisuri, Tarakano, it is a pleasure to see you again.”

“Your tea is always pleasant,” Karanisuri said.

“You are not here for tea,” Lhinnor stated it outright, eyeing the couple.

“We are in fact here for tea. We have just returned from Tol Fainarad,” Tarakano declared with a small smile. “We truly do enjoy the blends you create. My wife and I are not so talented in that arena.”

This caused Lhinnor to laugh, “However I am sure you are truly curious about the state of my project.”

“It is our family’s tale you are telling. I do not mind the tale, for many know of it already. Still, I want to make sure it is right and that you do not embellish it,” Karanisuri divulged.

“Your story is safe with me,” Lhinnor promised. “Excuse me a moment.”

Lhinnor escaped the Tea Room walking swiftly back to his study. He opened the draw and pulled out a large bound book. His fingers caressed the spine, his gaze lingering upon it. Lhinnor went back to the Tea Room with the book held carefully in his hands.

“Here,” Lhinnor said presenting the book with a flourish. Karanisuri placed her tea cup onto the tray. She took the book in her hands and sat down settee. Tarakano sat beside her his eyes turned trained on the page she opened too. The two remained silent as Karanisuri opened the page. Karanisuri lost her composure and gasped, her eyes settling upon him.

“You…”

Tarakano read out a passage, “The stars are always constant, yet sometimes blackened storm clouds would block them out. Not even our fires and their smoke would ever block out the sight of that we, the Eldar love most, the stars. While I love the stars, as much as any other, what I have always loved most is the wind. It is even in my mother's name, suri. Wind.”

“You used our words,” Karanisuri managed to finally say.

“I thought it best. I have a great memory, always able to recall the exact words a person said on what day, even what they were wearing. It is such a small skill but it has greatly aided me, especially in casting your story in proper light. I desired to use your words, for what words could I say? None, for it is not my story but yours, your family’s. I just arranged it and I hope that it is to your fancy.”

“Will you give us time?”

“Of course. Would you like more tea, perhaps some lembas? I will bring you the rest of the books,” Lhinnor said.

“The rest?” Tarakano asked.

“Yes, I split each book into each age.”

“I see the reasoning behind that,” Karanisuri stated. Karanisuri gazed at her husband for a moment.

“More tea please and lembas would be most welcome. Could we have some of those sweet cakes from last time? Karanisuri loves them,” Tarakano said.

“It will be my pleasure,” Lhinnor promised. Lhinnor quickly left and returned with more tea, the lembas, and the sweet cakes. He paused in the doorway of the Tea Room watching the couple. Karanisuri leaned against Tarakano, her head rested upon his shoulder. The book is between them. Tarakano’s arm is around her shoulder. Lhinnor placed the tray on the small table and left the couple.

‘I hope you like it,’ Lhinnor thought, glancing back at the couple before closing the door.


	2. Karanisuri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1: Karanisuri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Language Note
> 
> -ner/nes - Ner is male elf, nes is female elf. Plural format is neri and nesi. Elleth/Ellon does not exist yet.
> 
> -Bova is not a real word within Tolkien’s elvish. It is crafted from the Sindarin “govanan” as Mae govenan means well met. Bova is just a simple slang for “well met”
> 
> -Mesta - Bye - an Eldamo import
> 
> -Mai Pharalië. - Hunt well - the idea is that it is a blessing, much like the saying “A star shines in the hour of our meeting”

_Karanisuri_

The stars are always constant, yet sometimes blackened storm clouds would block them out. Not even our fires and their smoke would ever block out the sight of what we, the Eldar, love most: the stars. While I love the stars, as much as any other, what I have always loved most is the wind. It is even in my mother's name, suri. Wind. Perhaps my name should have been along the lines of meaning “Untamed Heart” or maybe “Untamed Wind.” But, my mother-name is Karanisuri. It means red wind, for my hair is the rich color of my paternal grandmother's clan, and I am as swift and agile as the wind. Perhaps my mother knew that like the wind, I would travel across land and sea, seeing sights few of my people have seen, meeting strange cultures and people. Perhaps my mother knew to that I would never settle down easily, and that even my partner would flow with my life, my wind.

My mother often told me as I grew older that while she was pregnant with my twin sister and I, her dreams were far more vivid and contradictory than when she carried my elder brothers. When I grew old enough, she told me her strange dreams in a hushed voice. She spoke of their dueling natures, of a gentle breeze that walked alongside her and never parted far from her. There was a wild wind that stayed with her for the briefest time but would rush off. Mother would never see it for a long time, but when she did, the wind had changed. This happened many times. The wild wind however would always return to her, whispering of sorrow, love, and tales of adventure. My mother held off for several years giving us the name that we would be publicly known as for several years. My twin sister and I grew up with the use of our father-name. 

However, mother finally named us after ten seasons. I was to be Karanisuri and my sister to be Vilóma the gentle breeze voice. It is an apt name, for my sister is soft, gentle, and rarely raises her voice loudly except in song. My sister is the gentle breeze in actions; her nature giving to the growing of plants and of healing the hurts of the world. Despite our many differences as we matured and the years turned we were close confidants. My sister’s gentle insight would smooth over the many family conflicts and differences.

My memories in Cuiviénen are treasured, from every celebration to every fight. If they were a physical object I would guard them like Feanor guarded the Silmarils. Would I go back and attempt to change the events that led me from the shores of Cuiviénen to the shores of Aman and then back to Beleriand in rebellion? No. I made my choices and followed where the wind took me. It may have been fate for me. It could be that I and others followed the plan that Ilúvatar had long ago decided. Resist or accept? The wind does not stop for any elf, man, or dwarf.

Let me fall back into those cherished memories of the time before the words of sun and moon exist. In this time, there is much peace before Melkor hunted us down as we strayed. Like the wind I was named for I was never meant to be caged, but caged I-no, we-became. I am skipping ahead of myself. Let me backtrack to the simplest of times, just before the disturbance of Melkor became known to us.

There, adrift in countless times of unnamed moments of sleep, dreams, and periods of wakefulness, I ride along the plains of my youth. Here, there are rolling grasslands with sparse trees. There are roaming herds of wild horses, elk, and bison. There are foxes and even wolves. There are a few lone farms spread across the plains, made up of small groups of people who moved away from the much bigger villages. Across these plains too you will find us, the Palar-e-Rokasta, the Plains Riders. We are nomads, traveling between the various villages and farms. We are shepherds, keeping an eye on the various animal herds, for tracking, for hunting, but also for population. The real problem for us Quendi are the wolves.

The wolves are what make our group so important. Our counterpart is the Tir-e-Twaina, the Forest Watchers. They dwell exclusively in the forest of the Wild Wood and only come out for the Great Gathering. This is where I am currently heading with my brothers and our people. The Great Gathering. We have ridden hard for several days to get there.

I cannot help but smile as I spot the tents on the horizon. My brother, Kanatasulo, glances in my direction, the same grin is upon his face. My brother and I let out a loud yell and urge our horses into a gallop. Kanatasulo’s red hair is like a living flame dancing in the wind. It is his pride and joy. It only takes a moment for the Palar-e-Rokasta to give similar shouts of excitement. The distance closes fast, hooves thundering across the plains like the thunder of the Storm Season. The horses are slowed first to a canter and then into a trot as the Gathering is revealed in full display.

“Alar-si!” Greetings are given all around as we draw close, the loudest comes from a tall tree. It is a deep shout, the voice booming and filling the plains. It drowns out any other greetings.

“Alar-si Berowë!” Kanatasulo greets the member of the deep voice. Berowë is easily spotted, his form large and muscular in the tree. How the tree holds up his weight is a joke that all the clans tease him of. Berowë, is one of the tallest males of the Tatyar and very muscular. He was mighty in strength and altogether foolish because of it. He is more brawn than brain, but he is valiant, and I would rather have him in the toughest situations than a great deal of many people. Berowë often rides with the Palar-e-Rokasta.

“You have made good timing my friends! None of the festivities have even started yet!” Berowë informs us, jumping down from the tree.

“Has our family arrived yet?” I ask Berowë as I dismount.

“Oh yes, wait till you see Viloma’s surprise!” Berowë exclaims. 

“Should we be concerned?” Tankatiro’s deep voice resonates from behind me.

“Oh, I think you will enjoy the good news.” Berowë chortles then gives the directions towards our elder brother’s location. Our group settles on the outskirts of the gathering. We fall into the rhythm that only those who are used to traveling and working close together achieve. It would be described as wordless if not for the songs that fill the air. It is the way of the Quendi, the way of the Tatyar.

It is a short and easy task of setting up camp and tending to the horses. The tents, while unique, melt into the sea of temporary shelters that are close together. It is a temporary city organized with care. The horses are kept to preordained areas. Small campfires cast light and shadow upon the faces of the people gathered around them. The strong aroma of smoke, various herbs, and roasting meat fill the air. The various songs and instruments clash in sound. This is it. This is the Gathering.

“We are some of the last to arrive,” Tankatiro observes.

“At least we did arrive before the Gathering even started!” Kanatasulo hisses back. 

“Oh hush you two! We should be celebrating and not bemoaning our misfortune. Let us gift some of these skins to our family. Now take these skins as I am not carrying them all,” I order my brothers. I dole out the skins from our hunt between the three of us. My brother Tankatiro takes the bag of animal bone that we have not used yet. Our father will carve out flutes from it. I grab the small bag that contains my carefully made up beads of bone, wood, and shell. There are even a few carefully carved figurines. My beads and figurines we will trade to get produce and other products. We are hunters not farmers.

I turn to the rest of our companions. “Go be with your families. We will meet up tomorrow after Awakening.”

It seems strange at times to part from our riders. They are extended family to us. We sleep, eat, and hunt together. We share in each other's pain and joy, from marriage, to death, to the births of new horses, and of course the birth of elflings. We even share a longhouse that we built as a group. This is our lifestyle but some will chose to give it up for their spouse and some will leave for another group. Some people can never be convinced to travel the land. Some people are born to it like my siblings.

My brothers and I walk into the throng of the temporary city. We weave around the people and tents making our way quickly with the directions provided by Berowë. I spot Vilóma first, her golden hair falling loosely around her. Her eyes light up as she spots us. 

“Alar-si! You are late!” Vilóma cries out. She runs to walk by us and to inspect our skins.

“We are sorry little sister! We had various misfortunes hold us up this season. As you can see that even with our misfortunes we have had a successful season so far!” Kanatasulo exclaimed. 

“Mother and father will be well pleased,” Vilóma said. We arrive into our family’s camp. It quickly turns into a noisy gathering as we are greeted by our paternal aunts and uncles and our many cousins. My oldest brother emerges with his wife and they take our goods from ours arm. Our mother and father emerge next out of their tent with our youngest sibling in mother’s arm. It is another brother. I wish for a little sister to share my adventures with. Alas, it is not so. I do love my brothers and Vilóma herself, but my brothers are not female and my sister is not a wild wind.

“Bova daughter,” Mother greets me, kissing my cheek. She repeats this with Kanatasulo and Tankatiro. Father follows mother's example, getting us in this reserved manner of the Minyar. Sometimes I think it is strange how often the Nelyar and Minyar marry. The Minyar, my mother's clan is given towards acting and being emotionally reserved. My father’s clan and his father belong of the Nelyar, given to mercurial moods and passion. They laugh the easiest and the loudest, given to revelry, and delighting in what life has to offer. Our bawdy songs are most often written by the Nelyar. We may be called the Lindar the Singers at times, but we are also known as the Hrávar to, the wild people. Maybe this is why they are at times good couples being opposites who teach each other and share often a great passion for music. It is symbiotic.

“Your hunting has been good this year,” Father remarks to us.

“Karanisuri laid down to bison this year by herself. I am a little tired of bison meat. Bison this, bison that,” Tankatiro bemoans to father.

“Congratulations Karanisuri, may your arrows continue to fly true,” Mother speaks to me, pulling me aside into the tent. 

“If you are tired of bison meat, then come home my son. No one will begrudge you, least of all Kanatasulo or Karanisuri,” Father tells Tankatiro. I stop listening as my focus is drawn to my mother's face. It is etched in deep concern.

“What is it Mother?”

“You know how I attend the council meetings with our leaders at Minmbar?”

“I do.”

“There has been some worrisome reports that we received just before the Gathering. We never thought much of it in years past, as we are all well aware accidents happen. Recently the number of Quendi that go missing each Dry Season has gone up. It seems strange. It used to be those lone travelers that often seek far places. We raise search parties, though some few may return in a few seasons while others never at all. Yet now it is more than lone elves. We have several instances of small groups of elves just disappearing.”

“Are you sure it is not due to some strange misfortune? On our way to the Gathering we ended up having to scout around a river. It had strangely overflowed its banks. The river is never like that this late into the Dry Season with nary a storm.”

“Perchance it is some strange force for there is no sign of accidents or bad weather. Neither is there any sign of struggle, but in my heart I fear the worst. I will not ask you to stop riding, but I beg of you, be careful. Do not wander far from your group!”

“Mother, will this be a topic at the meeting on the twelfth night?”

“I am not sure. Father and the others may want to gather more information. There is worry over a wide spread panic. We know naught and have far too many questions. I only tell you in confidence for the trepidation in my heart is grave.”

“Worry not Mother! I will take your advice to heart, but there is not much to fear. We do travel in a big group.” I spoke to my mother in soothing tones. My mother and many of the Minyar, while not often gifted with visions of foreknowledge, are deeply intuitive. They know when the Storm Season will come upon the Quendi early or when a particular heavy rain will come upon the land making the rivers bloated and the mountains giving to sliding down. Occasionally they have caught visions of someone getting hurt, or when an elfling wanders to far, or other small events that happen. Most mothers while bearing a child or before she conceives have a dream or vision of the nature of their child. Thus the mother creates a name for her son or daughter. The father-name is derived from either the father or the mother's name, occasionally depending upon the sex of the child. I think it would be better known as a parent-name instead of the father-name. How many daughters are named after their father instead of their mother? Less than a third of all Quendi I can assure you.

“Mother! You must look at these skins!” Vilóma demands walking into the tent. My younger brother briefly stirs in my mother's arms, but he remains in sleep. My mother turns a critical eye upon the bison skin my sister holds up.

“This is finely done. I know it is not your work even if the kill is,” Mother expresses her criticism.

“No it is not. We gained a new member among our group, a Tatyar male who seems particularly good at leather work. Alas, I am no good for delicate work!”

“Suri!” Vilóma uses the shortened version of my mother-name. My parents never does this. Only my siblings and I call each other by shortened versions of our names, almost like a Chosen-Name. She continues after pausing to make sure my attention is upon her, “Do not be so disparaging of yourself!”

“Oi! Let us not discuss this. Any news of interest among our family?” I divert attention towards our family knowing full well it will distract my mother and my twin.

“Viloma has found a handsome ner,” Mother informed me with a sly smile.

“Mom!” Viloma squeals.

“What is this I hear?” Kanatasulo walks into the tent.

“Viloma has found a ner. What clan is he of?” I answer my brother’s question.

“He is a Minyar, golden haired and as eloquent as they come,” Mother informs us. Viloma is blushing furiously.

“I see, does this mean our dear sister is relocating to Minmbar?” Kanatasulo asks.

“No! Not! We have just met!” Viloma violently denies. Kanatasulo, Tankatiro, and I take turns teasing her and making her flush. Mother and Father makes us stop finally. Mother begins to give us the family news news. Our family is large with Mother’s six siblings and our father’s five siblings. I have over fifty cousins though my maternal cousins are much older, married, and with a few kids of their own. The tidings are always changing, from pregnancy, to arguments, to which Quendi are pursuing who. Mother and Father serves us food as they tell us the news. My sister takes this time to escape us. 

I too make a quick escape from my brothers and family. I wander through the tents looking for familiar faces. Occasionally I spot friends from Minmbar and also my home village. We exchange news and part ways, like wind blowing leaves away. I drift in the direction of the market.

“Ai! Wait up Karanisuri!” Berowë calls out. He rushes to my side grinning. “Heading to the market?”

“I am looking for the materials to make more arrows,” is the practical answer I give. Berowë nods in understanding. I smile up at him. Despite my Minyar heritage that leaves me taller than most nesi of Tatyar and Nelyar, Berowë towers over me. It is oddly appealing at times having to look up instead of someone’s eyes. “How is the new project that you were telling me of last Gathering?”

“I am experimenting with my father the different consistencies to form what a new kind of clay. It is interesting work,” Berowë explains. His fingers brush along my arm over the top of my hand. It is the lightest touch that makes me shiver.

“It also keeps you out of danger.” Brave, brave, Berowë is given to being foolish in his bravery. He throws himself into danger. Many are grateful for he has saved many lives, but he has many scars along his torso and arms. These are scars that are covered normally. People who do not know Berowë often stare at the vicious scars. It makes him uncomfortable but he laughs it off with his booming laugh. He hides it with humor, but I see the shadows.

“There is that,” he laughs. I see the shadows in his eyes. I grasp his hand and pull him into the shadows of of the trees. Kissing him chases the shadows from his eyes. My fingers caress his side work lower to his leggings.

“Suri,” he gasps out. His hands catch mine and stop me. “Later, later Suri. If we start now it will be time for sleep and you will have missed shopping for supplies.”

“At least one of us is practical.” We leave the shadowy trees and enter the outskirts of the market. We browse each area looking for the supplies I need, namely feathers. I stop in through various tents, looking for the feathers I need. Berowë helps to look having hunted himself. In several stops I spot the type I want, but they are not the proper size for arrows. Finally I find it.

“Bova,” a nes greets us. She has the silver hair that is only born by those of the Nelyar. The silver hair is not found among the other two clans of Quendi. She is much smaller than the ner beside her. The ner is tall and broad shouldered, with dark hair and grey eyes. He is a typical of the dark-haired Tatyar. 

“Bova,” Berowë returns.

“Bova,” I greet back. I carefully sort through the feathers. They are grouped together by bird type, by size. I take out the goose primaries that I spot. They are a little more resistant towards being wet, which is perfect for when I or others have to hunt in the rain. They are not perfect but we hunters have yet to find the perfect feather that performs in the midst of the Storm Season.

“You are a huntress,” the nes surmise.

“One of the Plains Riders, beloved,” the ner informs the nes. It is easy to tell with my simple and practical clothing. Berowë’s clothing is opposite of mine in adornment. His clothing is practical as he functions often as a guard and a hunter, but it is carefully adorned with beadwork and dyes. There is no kohl around my eyes, like the nes. No fresh scent of oils like hers, the essence of flowers. My stench is that of sweat, horses, and smoke.

“Oh! That must be so exciting! My husband tells me stories of the Plains Riders! It sounds so exciting,” the nes says, blushing.

“Yes I am Plains Rider, but being a Plains Rider is not a dream life,” I remind her. There is no room of softness for Plains Riders. The sky is our ceiling, the land our bed. Our home is always changing and we are exposed to the elements that someone who lives in a village is not exposed to. The Plains Rider life is spent in practicality. You cannot carry items with you that are not useful and the only extra items are spares like a knife.

“I tell my wife that! She likes her comforts and would little enjoy the rough life of the Plains Riders,” the ner says shaking his head. The ner gives an easy placating smile. I search through the feathers that are piled together. I select out the goose secondaries, setting them aside in a stack. The stockpile is not quite enough to replenish the arrows for my brothers and I. I will have to seek out more or visit one of the villages.

“Are you of the Tatyar and Nelyar? Your skin is tawny but your hair is a flame,” The nes asks curiously.

“My mother is of the Minyar but my father is of the Tatyar and the Nelyar. I am a daughter of all three clans,” I explain. “I am Karanisuri, daughter of Sirlindo, son of Belindo. My mother is Leylaldë daughter of Imin.”

“It is an honor to meet you Kheri Karanisuri. I have seen your mother at the councils. I am sorry I have not made the connection sooner,” the nes replies.

“I hold no grief. I take after my father’s family most.”

“Except for your face, you look like Kheri Iminyë,” Berowë speaks up.

“Here, try these feathers,” the ner pulls out a small sack. I open it. They are beautiful feathers of blue and green. It from a large bird that is seen on the Great Water. “I have tamed a few of these birds from the Great Water. They let me take a few feathers.”

“How much?” I hold the feathers up to inspect them carefully. My fingers caress them delicately getting a feel for them. I hand a feather over to Berowë to inspect. I pick up another. I cannot help but wonder how it will hold up. Even if I am a wanderer, I have an eye for beauty. It is why when we are at camp I spend my time carving.

“It is free this time around. I have waited to give these feathers to one who hunts as their trade. All I ask is that you inform me how they perform. If they perform as well as I believe they will, then they are worth the effort. If not, they are only an item of beauty.”

“I will. What village do you live in?”

“I live in Minmbar,” the ner answers. I put aside the feathers that I have chosen to buy.

“Let us haggle for these goose feathers,” I initiate and lay my bag out for inspection. There are bone needles, small wooden figurines that I have carved, carefully made obsidian knives, and various beads that I have carved and painted. The bartering process hardly takes long, exchanging needles, beads, and one knife for the many feathers I have selected.

“Come back again and seek me in Minmbar when you visit, mai pharalië.” the ner says as I shake hands with him. His hands are rough and calloused from hard work. I shake hands with his wife, her hands are rather soft. They are not the calloused hands of hard workers or hunters. She is probably a Kheri or at least a nes given to softer work.

“Yes, come visit and tell me tales of your adventures,” the nes exclaims. “Or stop by again! Mai pharalië!”

“I just may stop by before the Gathering is over,” I say as I package up the feathers with care. I turn to leave and I am suddenly hit with great force. I fall and hit my head hits the ground. I blink and stare up at the tent ceiling. I sit up rubbing my head. I glance around quickly to find a silver haired ner standing up.

“Oh my! Tarakano! I am sorry Karanisuri!” The nes says, her words easily revealing the fire in her soul. This nes for all appearances was delicate, but she has a fierce heart. “Apologize now!”

The silver-haired ner, Tarakano, looks as startled as I feel. He looks just like the nes with silver hair and green eyes. His hair is loose of all braids.

“I apologize,” the ner said quickly offering his hand to me. I take Tarakano’s hand and he hauls me up with easy strength. He could hardly be considered muscular like Berowë. Even this ner’s father looks far stronger and sturdier. His hands are calloused in the same way mine are. He is a hunter. Yet they are softer than mine. His green eyes remain bewildered. I smile gently. It makes me think back to my childhood where I always rushed around knocking people and myself over reckless abandon. 

“Take no heed, I am not offended. Excuse me, I must go. There is still a great deal I must look for,” I walk away with Berowë at my side. Swiftly we move away from the tent.

“Are you fine?” Berowë asked concerned.

“It was a far more gentle fall than being thrown from a horse.”

“Yes there is that. You bartered to much for those feathers!”

“This exchange was expensive Berowë, but if these feathers perform as I think they will. It will have been worth it. He gave them to me for free and it must have been a great work to get them. In any case, would you perhaps take me to a tent where they sell wood shafts?”

“Are you really that low on arrows?”

“On our way here we fell on a great deal of misfortune, from an overflowing river, to a landslide that blocked our way, then we were plagued by wolves. It has been a good hunting season but it is worrisome. I almost feel like it is an ill omen.” Berowë looks deeply concerned at my news.

“Some of the smaller settlements have been plagued with wolves. This may be an ill season or two,” Berowë agrees. Berowë accompanies me as I make my purchases for the materials I need to make more arrows. Berowë guides me to his campsite.

“I will cook and you can make your arrows in peace,” Berowë proclaims.

“Fine, I shall not argue with you!” I acquiesce. “Just promise to not serenade me with humorous and bawdy songs! I will never get work done if you make me laugh.”

“This I can agree to.” Berowë sets to cooking a simple soup. I begin to cut the wood first. I fall into a rhythmic song that follows the actions and Berowë joins me. We sit like this for some time each involved their own tasks. It is not long before the aromatic stew makes me hungry. I set the shafts I have made aside.

“That smells good.”

“It is a new recipe my mother’s friend has made up. It is supposed to be hearty and filling.” Berowë takes a cup and dips it into the stew. He fills the ceramic bowls this way. Berowë passes me one bowl and then sits besides me. The steam rises off the dark liquid wafting the strong scent of cinnamon and ginger. I sip it slowly. It burns down my throat not because of its temperatures but of the use of strong pepper. I gasp.

“You might want to use less hot pepper next time,” I choke out. Berowë nods tears streaming from his eyes.

“It seems like I got that wrong,” Berowë says breathless. I throw my head back and laugh at his pained expression.

“Show me your supplies,” I demand of Berowë. Berowë opens up the locked trunk. I find the fresh goat's milk within and add it to both our dishes. “Try it now, add more if you need it.”

“I over bartered for this. Never did I expect to use it in this manner,” Berowë bemoans the goat’s milk. He sips it slowly and then his face brightens. The goat’s milk had worked its magic.

“It is a trick I learned from my own mother.” I go back to my own soup and down it quickly. I let out a loud belch.

“Anything you can do, I can do better,” Berowë says in a sing-song voice. Berowë lets out an even louder burp. I laugh and add the goat’s milk to the pot of soup before serving myself again.

“It feels good to have more than meat, smoked meat, and berries,” I announce to Berowë. Berowë snorts at this and shakes his head.

“You are the one who chose this life. No one is stopping you.”

“I know this, Bero, I do. Yet even when I stay for a season I feel too soon the urge to wander.” I put down the bowl and lay back on the ground staring up at the stars. I wonder if the Stars are people. Some of the Quendi believe it so, while others assume is a natural object far above us. In the lullabies of my childhood, there is a song about the Stars being our guardians and watchers. There is a Star up in the sky that is born to watch over my life.

Does the star know if I will be lonely for the rest of my life? I am surrounded by love by family, by friends, but I do not have romance. I am not yet as old as my mother when she found my father but I wonder if I will be like her. Will I be an aberration with being a nes with carnal appetite and no one to call my heart? My fëa shudders at this thought.

“Mead for your thoughts?” Berowë offers. I sit up and take the small drinking bowl. The mead tastes of blackberries, honey, and cloves. Berowë pours out more from the small jug into the drinking bowls.

“I don’t know why you bother with the drinking bowls. We might as well just drink from the jug.” We both drink from the bowls. I grab the jug instead and gulp from it.

“It is considered poor taste to drink from the jug,” Berowë jokingly criticizes.

“Bero, Bero, Bero.” I shake my head at this but I do not laugh.

“You know how the Minyar is. The Tatyar always follows the Minyar,” Berowë mutters.

“And we Nelyar follow our own desires,” I say grinning at him. Berowë agrees with my statement, his grey eyes dancing in the low light. He takes a swig of the jug. His lips brushed over my throat as he hands me the jug. I take a huge gulp, the liquid sits warm in my belly. The mead is a strong brew. Berowë stands up. His eyes are smoldering.

“Guess what Tatyar do?”

“Go after what they desire?” My voice is breathy with desire. Berowë pulls me up to my feet and leads me into the tent. He pulls the string holding up the flat, enclosing us within. It is darker than outside due the canvas. The small opening at the top allows the starlight to filter in. 

Being with Berowë is easy. I do not have to think hard. This is what I think as we work the clothes off from each other as our fingers caress and our lips meet. I would choose him for a husband if it was not for the fact that I wanted a love like my parents love. Our desire for each other is of the flesh. It is passion that will quickly cool one day.

“Your brothers are going to kill me,” Berowë says against my skin.

“Every time you say that but you keep coming back,” I murmur back.

“A pretty nes has caught me.” Flesh yields to flesh. This is far too easy in its familiarity. In a private corner of my fëa I feel turmoil. Part of me is always concerned about my indiscretion. My family would be outraged. I am not the first to take a lover. I am not the first when it comes to having sexual relations with someone who I have no romantic inclination towards. I shut myself off from my thoughts and give myself over to ardor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the things I tried to keep in mind is that Tolkien was well, Catholic. There are many Christian tones mixed in with Celtic/Norse tones but the world creation myth is very Christian. I wanted to loosen it up as you can see that I deviated with it. There are many reasons for it which you will see in the future on top of the whole elves are not perfect. This is a young and shall we say wild culture?
> 
> Another infusion to the story is that I looked into nomadic tribes as well as hunter/gatherer cultures. I am sure it is not perfect this story but I tried to stay true to that theme. The elves seemed to develop rapidly but I think they remained more of a culture that was hunter/gatherer for a long time.


	3. Kandatuo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Language Notes:  
> Nicamarin - Nica is meant to be mean “small” with “good senses.” Marin means ripe or mature. In this rather poetic term, is reference to the time of an elf that is between 50 and 100. See Elven Ages.
> 
> Irin means town in Quenya. It is hardly a valid word in Tolkien’s later Quenya, but I shall use it anyway.
> 
> Minmbar is derived from “minya” which means first and “mbar” which is dwelling in Primitive Elvish.
> 
> Irin Altanenwa - Town of the Great Water. Alta - great. Nen - Water. Wa/Va - Of.
> 
> Irin Orosundova - Town of the Mountain Base.

Karanisuri arrives just before almost everyone is awake. This is her morning ritual. She is clean her red hair loose of braids or any adornments. You would think at this time my sister is at her most vulnerable. You are right if you catch her before her bath. Now she is guarded.

“Suri,” I call to her. She glances up at me from setting the firewood in place. A brief smile crosses her face.

“Sulo,” she says, using the shortened version of my mother-name. Sulo I am to her and our other siblings. Sulo because as an infant she had struggled to say my name, Kanatasulo. I am Sulo still, her brother wind. I know her heart as well as I know mine.

“Ride with me.” It is a demand, not a request. I walk away knowing she will follow. My sister always followed me as a child and like I tumbled after our elder brother, Kandatuo. I am sure we annoyed our elder brother sometimes, but we were all inseparable. Karanisuri is not the little shadow running after bigger brothers anymore. She has grown into herself, into her mother-name.

Times like this my heart hurts for my sister. Suri is no longer little with scraped knees and knuckles for she is a full-grown nes. Suri’s emotions run deep like the Great Water. Our childhood feels distant and yet in these same moments I am reminded of them. Karanisuri hardly cries. The few times I remember my sister crying was always when she was physically hurt. I would say she bore everything quietly, but she laughs loud and smiles. The shadows in her eyes are the only hint to the storm within.

We untie the horses in silence. The stallion I ride neighs softly while I run my hands along his side and up into his mane. My fëa reaches out to commune with him. He is content but desiring to run free across the plains. With sweet words I promise the stallion as I lead him away that he will get to ride hard and fast today. We exit the temporary horse paddock and lead them a short distance away. We mount up and begin to ride away from the encampment. The silence continues to linger between us. The horses slowly amble along from the encampment. Once we are clear, I push the stallion into a gallop. Karanisuri and I gallop away and the tents dwindle into dots along the horizon. The sound of the horse as it breathes, the pounding hooves drown out everything but the wind. Karanisuri’s loose hair flies all about her. She grimaces when it blocks her sight briefly but whips back out of her eyes again. The Gathering dwindles fast into the distance before we direct our horses into a trot. 

“Sulo…” Karanisuri says my name so quietly. It is almost lost into the wind if I was inattentive. Suri has my sole attention so I hear her.

“You know that your words are safe with me,” I remind her. Our sister Viloma may at times be a close confidant, yet I am Karanisuri’s secret keeper. This is our family feud at times, who is close to who and who is the secret keeper. The other family feud is who can outdo who. It comes with being a large competitive family. Viloma does not often participate as most of these are rough sports as she remains the gentlest of spirits.

“I know this. Did mother tell you about the reports of the missing Quendi?”

“Yes. There is little we can do but hope for their return.” This is not what my sister is wanting to say. She starts off first with practical topics before she gets to the one that causes the merriment in her eyes to be faded. It is her way. It is the yoke of leadership that she wears.

“There is little we can change in our ways. We already run double watches. Perhaps a third person on watch? It seems a bit much,” Suri looks thoughtful. Her eyes are upon the stars. Her lips move wordlessly with probably a prayer. Suri does not usually give weight to the superstitions of the Quendi. They are so ingrained even if the history of the Quendi are short.

“Suri, we already take great safety measures to ensure the protection of our people. We are in a big group. I highly doubt that we will be attacked.” Suri remains quiet like a gentle breeze that barely stirs the trees. She glances at me for a moment and her expression remains guarded.

Finally, after a while, Karanisuri speaks up. “When I heard the news, trepidation filled my heart. I am not one for superstitions but I fear the changes that will occur as the seasons go on.”

I remain silent. What could I ever say? Should Karanisuri and I go looking for the answers to the missing elves? It would require a long time talking to many of the Quendi? Should we seek our grandfather Imin? He would have heard all the same reports that Mother had heard. I know that Mother would not appreciate us taking upon this task. What more could we add? We would possibly be risking our lives.

“Do not think about it Sulo.”

“What?” Suri’s eyes are focused on me. Those blue eyes are penetrating as if she could see my heart. My sister has no true gift for foresight. She has never experienced a vision or called forth from the mirror pools the sight of the one she will love. No matter how she fasts or prepares herself to glean what may come from the mirror pools all she sees is her reflection. Even among the paths our fëa travel in dreams she glances only the present. Karanisuri is an odd one unable to call up images; though she is not the only one. Unlike her, I have glimpsed my future partner. I fear we may never meet for who has seen trees that glow? Yet there is hope for others have dreamed of the same strange trees. The trees that glow silver and gold are but whispers and superstitions. For who would dare to believe and yet the Quendi believe that the stars are Guardians. They watch over the Quendi and in fact, each star is special to one Quendi. Thus, there will be countless Quendi and one day our people shall be countless like the stars. Still, I hold hope in my heart that one day I will meet her under the silver tree.

“Do not think of searching for the truth. We are not ready.” My sister’s voice pulls me from my musings.

“If not now, then when? Is it not best to figure it out while we can?”

“If the Forest Watchers cannot track them then what little can we do?”

“Finwë.” He is one of the few Tatyar who is gifted with visions.

“And what of our cousin Ingwë?” Suri asks me.

“Our cousin…”

“Sulo he is as gifted as any other. You and I know little of visions. We are gifted in the way of the Nelyar. We hear the winds whisper and the commune with trees and animals. We get ahead of ourselves. If we are to take such an expedition we must select members who will suit our purposes and talk to Grandfather Imin.”

“I knew you were entertaining the idea!” I cannot help but grin at this. My sister has me fully distracted from the shadow in her heart. My mind is drifting along like leaves in the wind on how to prepare for this trip and when to start out. Suri and I are of the wind and. We are not meant for cages nor to forever linger in one spot. The journey is every calling us onward from hearth and home.

“Sulo,” Suri starts, censuring me in the midst of my thoughts. “Sulo, we must wait. There is much thought that must goes into this. We should linger for a time as well for Mother is pregnant again.”

“So soon?” I am dubious of Mother’s pregnancy. Her body was never quite the same after the birth of Karanisuri and Vilóma. The twins birth had been rough on Mother, and she did not conceive for a long time. Tankatiro had been born a few seasons before the twins hit their one-hundred year. Our youngest brother Cwîlneno was born shortly after Tankatiro hit majority, only two Dry Seasons ago. If Mother is pregnant again it would be the shortest time between us children. Not even elder brother Kandatuo and I are born so close together. Karanisuri and Vilóma do not count for they are twins.

“I have heard it from Vilóma. Shush. If she is to give birth or have a miscarriage, I wish to be there to close ranks.”

“Suri, wind-sister, what is wrong? Why has a shadow fallen upon your heart?” I ask it outright. I do not want to continue to dance to her tune. I shall play the role of older brother and take control of the conversation.

“I wish to not speak of it yet. I may in time but the issue is delicate,” Suri admits to me. Her fingers twine through her horse's mane. She clicks her tongue and her stallion launches forward. I catch the briefest lyrics that she sings.

“Away, away you shall ride from me, for a season or three,” she sings. It is a song of lovers who are parted at times because they cannot give up this life of traveling. This is probably the one clue she has given to me of her thoughts. Suri probably does not even mean to. Yet if we had not spoken of the topic of our loneliness I would have never guessed. She is lonely and wondering if the reason she cannot gain a vision of her future spouse is that she is meant to be alone. It is our people’s belief that found in the pools along the Great Water that a Quendi can gain a vision of either their future and or their future spouse. Some people are far greater with this ability than others. Others like Karanisuri have looked into the pools and see nothing no matter how hard they prepare by fasting.

Karanisuri is nearing her one hundred and forty-fourth Storm Season. It is a sacred number for us as there were originally one hundred and forty-four elves. They are the founders of our society. There are still many others who are Unbegotten but these family lines are considered sublime and well established. They are all settled in Irin Minmbar, the Town of First Dwelling. Most Quendi have settled down with their partners and are starting their families. 

Karanisuri and I are of some of the few who do not have spouse. There has been pressure lately for us to settle down with a partner to have children with. Their arguments are weak. Why, we only have to lay together to beget children! There is no declaration of spending the rest of our lives together. We can keep our lifestyle. We just need to have children after all! My sister and I both want to experience what our parents have and our married siblings have. We may fool around with other elves, even copulate. We hold to hope. We keep hoping that we will meet the Quendi whose very fëa we will madly and deeply in love with. We hope to hear that calling. Oh it is not a calling that is spoken or even whispered but a mere feeling. I have never experienced it. I have only ever beheld a vision of her beneath those trees. Karanisuri has never been given such a gift. I wonder if she holds to hope.

“Come on boy, let us catch up them,” I murmur to the horse. I nudge the stallion, and he sets off picking up speed fast. I had lingered too much time in my thoughts and cannot catch up to my sister. Suri brings her horse into a trot and waits for me to catch up. She is smiling, the shadows of her heart is chased away for the moment. We make our way to the river to let the horses drink. Karanisuri dismounts and takes out a brush from a small pack at her side. The stallion drinks and she begins to brush him. Suri will brush him until his hair glistens as if it is silky smooth.

“You are so beautiful. You are so incredibly strong and fast,” Suri mutters compliments to her horse. I am doing the same, my spirit is communing with him. It is hard to explain to someone who does not commune with their spirit to nature, to animals, or even with the wind. The world is alive. My horse is alive. The stallion has emotions and experiences desires. Right now he is hungry, and he longs to have a few pieces of apple.

“I will give you an apple later,” I convey to my horse. He nips my shoulder playfully. I laugh joyfully. We linger upon the river banks for a while. Suri finally stops brushing her horse and gives me her brush. Her stallion snorts in Suri’s ear causing her to grin.

“Do not be jealous you. He is your brother,” she teases the horse tapping the stallion on the nose. I brush out my horse humming along.

“Are you going to participate in the Hunter’s Drumming this year?”

“Ah yes. I got chosen to lead it this year,” Karanisuri’s cheeks redden as she tells me this.

“This is a great blessing for our family and high praise for you.”

“I am well pleased to be honored. I pride myself on my abilities as a hunter,” Karanisuri confides. Ah yes, the infamous Tatyar pride that seems infectious. It seems that everyone who is a descendant of the Tatyar clan has pride. Even our family suffers from pride though it is only our father’s mother who is of the Tatyar. We are Nelyar, we are singers and passionate, we are Minyar, we are insightful and courty. Karanisuri leads the stallion away. I do not follow instead I attend to my horse still. I make his coat shine with my efforts before I lead him away. I run back to camp but Karanisuri is not there. I grab two apples to feed to my horse. He deserves it after all.

Kandatuo is waiting for me by my stallion his grey eyes trained on my figure. He waits for me to feed the stallion the pieces of apple he longs for. My elder brother always makes me feel nervous when he is like this. Kandatuo’s silence always seems to convey louder than his words can. I do not think he is displeased. I am not Karanisuri. I cannot see into his heart like she can.

“Karanisuri is chosen to lead the drumming this year,” Kandatuo starts off.

“She has just told me.”

“Has she asked for you to be her second?”

“No.”

“Do you have any idea of whom she will ask?”

“Suri may ask Berowë as they are childhood friends or one of us. Suri may also have asked father to choose someone. There is still time nonetheless.” Kandatuo nodded his grey eyes thoughtful. “Go look for Viloma or Mother, Suri may be with either of them.”

“I am not so worried. Though I must ask, are Suri, or you, Sulo, thinking about looking for the missing Quendi?” I give a wry smile.

“Suri has thought of it but has reminded us of our duty to our people and family. We cannot run off without good information either,” I answer truthfully.

“This is a relief to know you will not go immediately. I am happy to hear that you have considered it. I to have given it much thought. We shall discuss more when we season at Minmbar this year. When the storms let us up meet me at Irin Orosundova. We have much to do and discuss before we even set out,” Kandatuo informs me. His eyes glance from me, to the camp, to the wide plains that lay before us.

“Is this wise?”

“We must seek answers. There are some who are too superstitious to do so and some who are too cowardly. I know who is stout of heart. Those who are settling Irin Orosundova are such people. The Plains Riders are such people and so are the Forest Watchers. We will not be like those of Minmbar ready to accept whatever cage our Leaders will grant to us.” Kandatuo’s eyes grow dark in this statement. There is a fire in his eyes that match his hair. Kandatuo speaks to me passionately of his beliefs for a while longer his eyes trained on the distance. Kandatuo turns back to me.

“As I said there is much to discuss. Do not mention it to Mother or Father. They will be worried.” Kandatuo all but orders me this. I know he is serious. When Mother spoke of missing Quendi her fear was clear to see. I did not need to be insightful to understand the worry that dwells on her mind like a small rock in a shoe. It is bothersome.

“Does your wife approve of this?” I finally ask.

“Aye, she does. Do you think I would marry someone who could not match my spirit?” Kandatuo laughs at this and shakes his head. “My wife is a match for me in every way. One day you will meet the nes who will make your fëa dance to her tune.”

“I fear that may never happen brother.”

“Hold to hope brother, hold to hope,” Kandatuo tells me. He squeezes my shoulder briefly and briskly walks away.

‘I do try’ I wanted to shout at my brother. I shudder at the thought of the future. Some cold wind of fate will blow our way. My eyes set upon the stars and I pray that they will guide and watch over us. This journey for answers may as well go ill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHARACTERS SO FAR:
> 
> Kandatuo is 179 Dry Seasons and 35 seasons older than Karanisuri. He is called “Kando” by his siblings. Kandatuo has red hair and grey eyes. Kandatuo is a Plains Rider. He is married to a Nelyar and one of the Forest Watchers. He is a recognized leader of his people, a Kheru. He leads his own Plains Riders group.
> 
> Kantasulo is 153 Storm Seasons and ten seasons older than Karanisuri. He is referred to as “Sulo” by his siblings. Kanatasulo has red hair. He is is a Plains Rider and unmarried. Kantasulo is a Kheru and leads a Plains Riders group with Karanisuri. Kantasulo also has no gift for foresight, but has seen the vision of who he will marry.
> 
> Karanisuri is 143 Storm Seasons. She is referred to as “Suri” by her siblings. Karanisuri has red hair. Karanisuri is a Plains Rider and unmarried. Karanisuri is a Kheri, a female leader of her people, and is the main leader of her Plains Rider group. Karanisuri learned much of what she knew from Kandatuo and his wife. She is an lustful relationship with Berowe, an offensive one in the eyes of the Quendi. She is often insightful of the people around her. Karanisuri has no capability of visions of the future, not even using mirror pools. She is very in tune with her spirit and the spirits of the world around her. Karanisuri has abilities that she will grow into.
> 
> Viloma is 143 Storm Seasons. She is Karanisuri’s twin. She is called “Vili” by her siblings. Viloma has blonde hair. Viloma is a leather worker and dyer. She is married to one of the Minyar. She lives in Minmbar.
> 
> Tankatiro is 52 Dry Seasons. He is called “Tiro” by his siblings. Tankatiro has blonde hair. Tankatiro is a Plains Rider and unmarried. Tankatiro is Karanisuri’s second-in-comand of the Plains Riders group.
> 
> Cwîlneno is only two Dry Seasons. He is called “Neno” by his siblings. Cwîlneno has blonde hair. He is just a child.
> 
> Leylaldë (Karanisuri’s mother) is well over four hundred seasons. She is the second child of Imin and Iminyë. She is a Minyar and married to Sirlindo. She is blonde, tall, and has a very slender figure.
> 
> Sirlindo (Karanisuri’s father) is much younger than his life. He is of the third generation of children born in Cuivienen. His mother is one of the Tatyar and his father is one of the Nelyar. Sirlindo is a gifted singer and musician. A talent which passes onto his children. It is their love of music that unites them.
> 
> Berowë is 145 Storm Seasons. He is called “Bero” by Karanisuri. Berowë is sometimes a Plains Riders and the other he is a craftsman of Pottery. He is tall and bulky with muscle. He is a Tatyar and unmarried. He grew up with Karanisuri in Minmbar.
> 
> Tarakano is 140 Dry Seasons. He lives in Irin Ailinmbar. He has silver hair and green eyes. He is a full descendant of the Nelyar. He is, in the future married to Karanisuri.
> 
> Lhinnor is born during the end of the second age. He is a scholar and a writer. He is famous for telling the tales of common people. He considers the story of Karanisuri and her family his masterpiece. He dreams of Middle-Earth for he has never been.


End file.
